


Will You Love Me Tomorrow Like You Love Me Tonight?

by Stylinsonvodka



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Angst, Art Student Zayn, Bets & Wagers, Blow Jobs, Bottom Zayn, Dirty Talk, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Frat Boy Liam, Grinding, M/M, Pet Names, Riding, Rimming, Top Liam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-05-27 13:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6285913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stylinsonvodka/pseuds/Stylinsonvodka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Liam's reigning president of Alpha Sigma Phi, and Zayn's the startling beautiful art student that waits tables at his favourite cafe. They don't get along, exactly.</p><p> </p><p>(Alternatively, the one where Zayn really hates fraternities, and Liam just really likes Zayn.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> so here it is!!!!!!!!!!! after approximately 13 long years, heres the frat boy fic i promised!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> it was originally just gonna be a really long oneshot, but when i wrote the fic, i wrote it in different bits and pieces on my phone and my laptop and ipad and 4000 different notebooks and putting all those pieces together is a big huge enormous pain in the ass. i started putting them together this morning, but when i stopped to read it over i got too excited so i decided to finally post the part i finished!! im hoping to get another part posted either tonight or tomorrow, and finished in the next few weeks, but i guess well see!!
> 
> anyway i wanna thank everybody thats been waiting for this fic for being so patient. i hope you love it!!

So it's a Saturday, and Zayn's at work, running on approximately fifteen minutes of sleep and more cups of stolen coffee than are probably good for his health. 

 

He has a rainbow of paint smudged across his fingertips, and his hair is messy, falling in front of his face when the morning rush slows down and he slumps into one of the empty chairs at the counter. His shift had started at 5:30, and he'd fallen asleep at about 4:45, after he'd been up all night trying to get a start on his final project. He's working towards his art degree, and he's almost finished with his first year, but he's starting to think that he should just give up and pick another major. 

 

For his final project, he'd been given carte blanche. The professor had instructed that it had to mean something to him, and that'd been all the direction he'd been given. He'd been excited for the freedom at first, but his excitement had started to splinter as soon as he'd sat down to get started on his project and nothing had happened. He usually had a talent for sitting at his easel and having a painting pour from his fingertips, but once he had sat down to get his project started, nothing. He got more nothing the next day, and the next day, and the day after that, and a few weeks had passed and Zayn still hasn't even started his project. 

 

He'd managed to churn out a painting at about 4:41, but when he'd sat back to look at it, it had just been a very cartoonish piece of scenery and an impractically large sun wearing impractically large sunglasses. That's about when he'd given up. 

 

Honestly, he was losing hope that he'd ever be able to drum something up. He doesn't really wanna switch majors, but he's starting to think that he might have to. 

 

With a sigh, he drops his tray down on the counter, picking at the painting flaking from his fingertips. It's nearing 7:00, and the cafe is starting to empty out as the students head to their weekend classes or jobs of their own. He's alone at the counter until the other barista, Louis, unfortunately saddled with the morning shift, leans against the counter across from him and props his chin in his palm. 

 

"Long night?" He asks. 

 

"I'm thinking I should switch majors," Zayn answers honestly, and Louis cracks a grin. 

 

"What were you thinking?" He asks. 

 

"I don't know," Zayn replies, which is unfortunate. It's not like he's good at anything. He thought, for a time, that he'd been good at art, but it's starting to look like he'd just been lying to himself. "Maybe Canadian history." 

 

"Canadian history?" Louis echoes. "No." 

 

"Enology?" 

 

Louis raises his eyebrows. "What's enology?" 

 

"The study of wines," Zayn tells him, and Louis laughs, shaking his head. 

 

"Absolutely not," he says, straightening up to stretch his arms over his head before he leans against the counter across from Zayn again. "What about human sexualities?" He asks him, and Zayn shakes his head. 

 

"What would I do with a human sexualities degree?" 

 

"You'd become a sex therapist," Louis tells him, and Zayn snorts as he looks up. 

 

"A sex therapist?" 

 

"It's a thing," Louis insists, and Zayn shakes his head again. 

 

Louis props his chin in his palm again, indignant. "I guess you could always try art," he says. 

 

Zayn makes a vaguely unhappy noise, scratching at the paint on his thumb. He seriously considers dropping out for a second, but he knows that's not really an option. It's just that he's usually so good at creating something from nothing, at sitting in front of an empty canvas and pulling inspiration from the air around him. He's never really had artists block, and he doesn't know why he's suddenly been stricken with it, or why it had to happen right after he'd been assigned his final project. 

 

He wonders what his professor would do if he turned in the cartoonish landscape and impractically large sun painting. He wonders if he'd fail him.

 

"Art is kicking my ass," he says honestly, pushing his hair back from his face with one hand. "I don't know what the fuck I'm gonna do." 

 

"What did your professor say?" Louis asks. "Just that it had to mean something to you?" 

 

Zayn groans, frustrated. "It has to have meaning," he says. "I could turn in a fistful of rocks and he'd give me full credit if I could bullshit something about those rocks being the building blocks of who I am today."

 

Louis cocks a brow. "That doesn't sound too hard." 

 

"It shouldn't be," Zayn agrees bitterly, glancing instinctively toward the door when it's pushed open and the bell chimes overhead. 

 

Zayn recognizes the crowd that stumbles in as a few of the Alpha Sigma Phi brothers, wearing dark sunglasses and smelling of stale beer. He isn't surprised to see them, exactly, as they have a sort of routine worked out and they're right on schedule. Every Friday night they'd throw a party, and every Saturday morning they'd stumble into the cafe, sluggish and hungover. They'd try to ease their hangovers with black coffee, before they'd return to their frat house, where they'd throw another party on Saturday night. Then they'd be back on Sunday morning, and it's sort of a vicious cycle. 

 

In all honesty, Zayn hates every one of them, and while he'd known they'd be coming, he'd been foolish enough to hope that maybe they wouldn't show up. He hates frat boys in general, but specifically Alpha Sigma Phi, who are consistently loud and rude and obnoxious no matter how much they've had to drink or how badly they're hungover. 

 

The worst of the worst is their president, Liam, who flashes Zayn a smirk as him and his fraternity brothers stalk towards their usual booth in the back of the cafe. He has a habit of tucking Zayn's tip into his waistband and telling him to _come and get it_. He'd once tucked a tenner into Zayn's back pocket and asked him for lap dance. Zayn fucking hates him. 

 

He wants to throw his tray at him as he watches him pass, in a baggy sweatshirt and a red snapback that has ΑΣΦ printed across the front in blocky black letters. It's pulled backwards over his hair, just like it always is, and Zayn wants to rip it off his stupid head and stick it in one of the blenders. 

 

He doesn't. Instead, he reluctantly heaves himself to his feet, trying to absorb Louis' words of encouragement as he crosses the room to stand in front of the booth. He can feel Liam's eyes on him the entire time, and Zayn watches his lips curl into a smirk when he stops in front of his table. He licks over his lower lip, and Zayn absolutely hates him. 

 

"G'morning, kitten," Liam greets, in his usual, unhurried drawl. His gaze flickers from Zayn's eyes, down the length of his body, and back again. "You look tired," he says, patting his own thigh with one hand. "Why don't you get off your feet for a minute? Sit on my lap?" 

 

He's smirking, and the other blokes crammed into the booth around him break off into varying amounts of laughter. 

 

"Eat shit," Zayn says, without missing a beat. 

 

Liam smirks at him again. "Is that a no?" 

 

Zayn fucking hates him. He wants to make him eat his fucking ΑΣΦ hat, but he somehow refrains from tearing it from his head and shoving it down his throat. He stares down at him, instead, trying to look unbothered. "Can I get you anything?" 

 

"Are you offering?" Liam asks, and Zayn has to bite down on his tongue. 

 

"I'll be right back with your coffee," he says dryly, turning away from the table, and he pretends he can't feel Liam swat at his arse as he walks back across the cafe. 

 

He returns to raucous laughter and the lopsided grin that's still plastered across Liam's face. "Thank you, kitten," he says, patting his lap again. "Are you sure you don't wanna sit down?" 

 

"I think I'd rather die," Zayn tells him honestly, and the bloke sitting at Liam's right snorts loudly into his hand. He tries to play it off as a cough, but he isn't fooling anybody. 

 

"Can I get you anything else?" Zayn asks. 

 

Liam licks his lips as he looks up at him, predatory. "Are you sure you aren't offering?" 

 

"Not to you," Zayn tells him, and Liam's lips start to curl at the corners. 

 

"That's a shame," he says, reaching out to tuck a bill into Zayn's pocket. His hand lingers on Zayn's arse afterwards, unmoving. "I could make you feel so good, kitten." 

 

"I doubt it," Zayn says, and the look Liam gives him, like he gets off on their repartee, kinda makes him wanna gag. Without waiting for more of an invitation, he pulls out of reach of his wandering hands, and places the pot of coffee down on the table before he walks back across the cafe. He slumps back down at the counter, and Louis shoots him a sympathetic look from the other side. 

 

"Why don't you just paint Liam?" He asks finally, and Zayn lifts his head to scowl at him. 

 

"Why don't you fuck off?" 

 

 

 

After Liam finally leaves, blowing Zayn a kiss as he goes, the rest of Zayn's shift is pretty quiet. 

 

He's almost in a better mood when he signs out, shrugging into his jacket, until he pushes out the door and remembers that to get home, he has to walk down Greek Row. He almost considers going the long way, but he's exhausted, and he doubts he could will his legs to move anymore than they absolutely have to. 

 

It's with a resigned sigh that he starts towards Greek Row, only a block from the cafe. In hindsight, he should've known most of their customers would be frat boys, but at the time, he hadn't really been thinking. He had just been grateful for the job, but he wonders if he may have been the only person that applied. Everybody else might've been smart enough to steer clear of Greek Row. 

 

He bites his tongue again, shaking his hair from his face as he walks. He wonders if the job might not be so bad if he didn't have to see Liam so frequently. He saw most of the Alpha Sigma Phi house every Saturday and Sunday, but he saw Liam and his right hand man, Harry, pretty much every day of his life. Zayn usually works the morning shifts, as most of his classes are during the afternoons, and Liam comes in every day for a morning coffee and to tell Zayn how good his arse looks in his jeans. He's always wearing the same stupid snapback and the same lopsided smirk, tipping Zayn way more than he needs to but always tucking it into Zayn's waistband or his back pocket. Zayn fucking hates him. He does appreciate the tips, though. Not that he'd ever let Liam know that. 

 

God, no. He's not an idiot, and he has a feeling that if he ever gave Liam the slightest bit of praise, he'd never be able to get rid of him. One of the sorority girls, Sophia, who will sometimes come in to the cafe to study, is an ex girlfriend of Liam's, and she always has some choice things to say about him. She'd actually told Zayn that he wasn't all that bad, but Zayn knows from experience that that isn't true. He's the worst. Zayn hates him. 

 

He hates his stupid smirk, and his ridiculous snapback, and the deep, rumbling sound of his laughter. He hates the sound of his voice, and the feeling of his hands, and that stupid fucking smirk, God, he hates it so much. Honestly, just thinking about him is starting to worsen Zayn's already foul mood, and when he finally arrives back home to his dorm room, he's so angry that his hands are shaking. He had planned to nap just as soon as he got home, but he knows that he can't. He needs to fucking paint, to vent, to ease the fury from his fingertips and onto a canvas. He drops down in front of his easel, pushes his hair back from his face, and for the longest time, he paints. 

 

It feels fucking good, too. The tension starts to ease from his shoulders, and his bad mood is slowly pouring out of his fingertips and into his painting. He works furiously, lines and colours, and he almost thinks that he might be making something he can be proud of. Something worthy of his final project, maybe. 

 

Hours have passed before he finally leans back again to see what's he's created. Liam's smirking face looks back at him from the canvas. 

 

Zayn nearly screams in frustration. 

 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" He asks the painting, and he knows it can't talk, but he's heard Liam's voice enough over the course of the year that he can almost hear him. _No, but I'll fuck you if you want me to_.

 

Zayn wants to cry. He picks up the canvas, holds it steady against his knee, and punches a hole directly through Liam's face with one hand. Then he lifts it back onto his easel, and paints over the entirety of it in thick, black paint. 

 

When it's no longer discernibly Liam, he rises to his feet again, toeing off his shoes and dropping face first onto his bed. He doesn't even know how to describe how he's feeling. It's like ever negative emotion he's ever felt all rolled into one. It's like Liam's fucking haunting him, and it's infuriating, but it's exhausting, and a little bit maddening, and he isn't sure what to do with himself. He groans into his pillow. He fucking hates Liam and he just wants him to go away. He's tired of thinking about him. 

 

Eventually, he manages to drift into a restless, angry sleep, and he dreams, of course, of Liam and his dumb fucking smirk. 

 

He almost wakes up screaming. 

 

 

 

The music is so loud and so deep that Liam can almost feel it in his teeth. 

 

He's in the center of the Alpha Sigma Phi living room, that they had cleared out to make a sort of a dance floor, chest pressed against the back of some girl he hadn't bothered to learn the name of. She's grinding back against him in time with the music, and it's, like, alright, but he isn't nearly as into it as he'd like to be. He can't help that his gaze keeps flickering to the door, and that he's disappointed whenever it opens and it isn't Zayn that lets himself inside. 

 

Which, like, okay, is pretty stupid, 'cause it's not like he'd invited Zayn or that Zayn had ever even hinted at wanting to show up. Liam's just a hopeful guy, and like, Alpha Sig throws parties every Saturday, so it's not like Zayn doesn't know the party's happening. Liam likes to think that he's made it abundantly clear that Zayn's welcome into the Alpha Sig house whenever he wants for whatever reason, but whenever the door swings open again, it isn't Zayn standing in the doorway, and Liam has to swallow his disappointment. 

 

The song changes, to something equally as loud but slower in pace, and from his peripheral vision, where he's still staring at the door, Liam can see the girl he's been grinding against turn to face him. She's looking at him expectantly, like she had just spoken, but Liam hadn't been listening so he just quirks a brow. 

 

She puts her hands on her hips. "Have you been listening to me?" 

 

"No?" Liam replies, 'cause he thought it'd been obvious, and the girl makes an indignant sound and immediately turns her back to him again. She starts to weave her way through the crowd, but Liam can't really bring himself to miss her, and he chances another glance at the front doors before he suddenly has an armful of Harry. 

 

He starts to sway Liam in time with the music, grinning at him. "Waiting for somebody?" 

 

"No," Liam says again, but even to his own ears, it sounds like he's lying. 

 

Harry grins again. "It's not Zayn, is it?" 

 

"No," Liam repeats, and it sounds even more like a lie than the first lie. 

 

Harry pats his shoulder sympathetically, winding his arms around Liam's neck as they sway. "You're actually gone for him, aren't you?" He asks. 

 

Liam snorts. It's also vaguely dishonest, but it's just a sound, so it's not like it can be considered a lie, exactly. 

 

Harry snorts back at him. "Fuck off. You are." 

 

"I'm not," Liam says. Another lie. "Don't act like you've never noticed how fit he is." 

 

"Of course I have," Harry says, whistling. "He's fucking fit." Liam cocks a brow at him, and Harry rolls his eyes. "Anybody with eyes can see how fit he is," he says. "You're pining." 

 

"I don't pine," Liam says, indignant. "I couldn't give less of a shit about any of that mushy shit. I just want to get him on my cock." 

 

Harry looks unimpressed, like he can see right through Liam's facade, which is unsettling. He's being partially honest, though. He had started out just wanting to get Zayn on his cock. The very first time he'd spoken to Zayn, actually, he'd accidentally blurted something about wanting Zayn to sit on his face. Which had been true, of course, but he hadn't meant to say it. He can't ever seem to control his fucking mouth around Zayn. He'll open his mouth to tell him how good he looks, and instead, what will come out is some bullshit about how he wants to Zayn to sit on his cock. Which, again, is very true, but he hadn't meant to start telling him. His wandering hands are his own fault, he supposes, but that's just what he does. It's never really been a problem before. 

 

He's the president of the most popular, most powerful fraternity on campus. Nobody's ever really turned him down before. He can be a bit vulgar, and he can come on a bit strong, but it's not like it's ever been an issue before. Nearly every girl on Greek Row is at his feet, throwing themselves at him for the chance to be on the receiving end of his advances. At first, that's what had drawn him to Zayn. Zayn had been a challenge. He had been immune to Liam's advances, which was new, and interesting, and exciting. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, it had become more than just a challenge. He found himself looking forward to seeing Zayn. He found himself dragging himself to the cafe hours before his classes everyday on the off chance that Zayn would be working, Liam could see him. He found himself wondering about how Zayn's day's been, or how he's feeling, or what his interests are. 

 

Which, like. He's the president of the most popular, most powerful fraternity on campus. He isn't supposed to feel that way. He's supposed to spend his years in power living it up, fucking randoms, having fun. He isn't supposed to be pining after somebody who doesn't even like him, let alone want him. 

 

He is, though. Harry knows it. 

 

He doesn't say anything, though, and instead, just kind of stares at him as he continues to sway him in time with the music. "You wouldn't mind making a little wager, then, would you?" He asks finally. 

 

Liam raises his eyebrows tentatively. "What kind of wager?" 

 

Harry grins again, wicked. "I wager that you can't fuck Zayn before the end of the year." 

 

Liam can feel his chest tighten the smallest bit, but he doesn't hesitate as he nods. He's the president of the most popular, most powerful fraternity on campus. He doesn't turn away from a challenge. "Fine," he says, not missing a beat. "What will I get when I win?" 

 

"If you win," Harry corrects, "I'll give you two thousand quid. But," he says, wiggling his eyebrows, "I'll need video proof. I can't take your word for it." 

 

"Alright," Liam agrees, shaking Harry's hand when Harry pulls away to hold it out to him. 

 

Harry grins at him again. "Good luck, man," he says. "You're gonna need it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway!!!! i hope its been worth the wait!! dont forget to come find me on [tumblr](http://classiczain.tumblr.com) and im always taking prompts/headcannons/frat boy liam headcannons so dont be afraid to hmu!!


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess whos back!!!! three months late but back all the same!! im gonna try my very hardest to take less time with the next update, but in the meantime i hope this was worth the wait. enjoy!!

So the party continues well into the night, and Liam doesn't have any more fun. 

 

Well, no. That's a lie. He has a lot of fun. He just can't get Zayn out of his head. 

 

He throws back shot after shot of Crown Royal, chest pressed against the back of any sorority girl with a decent arse, and still, Zayn's always there in the back of his mind, taunting him, torturing him. 

 

Not that it's too much different than normal, 'cause Zayn's usually in the back of his mind, but it's - it isn't the same. As much as Liam hates to admit it — as much effort as he puts into smothering it, as many girls as he pulls to try and subdue it — he's gone for Zayn, through and through. Zayn doesn't even like him, he knows that, he's accepted it, but there's something about him that Liam's addicted to. 

 

At first, he really thought it was just because Zayn kept turning him down. Liam's the fucking president of Alpha Sig, true, and it's a cold day in hell when he gets turned away by somebody he's trying to pull. Zayn was the first person to really turn him down, and he was a challenge. Liam was sure that was why he couldn't get Zayn out of his head. 

 

Liam was wrong. Somewhere down the line, he had royally fucked up, and caught actual, genuine feelings for Zayn. He'd never say that one word, the scary one, the L one, but if he needed to put words to how he felt about Zayn, that's probably the word he would use. 

 

Which, yeah, is bloody fucking terrifying. It's like a constant weight in the pit of his stomach, one that's doubled since he's shaken Harry's hand. He's not very familiar with the feeling of guilt, but he's thinking that might be what it is. He's feeling guilty. 

 

He's not a fan of feeling guilty, but there isn't much he can do about it. Back out of the bet? He's president of the most popular fraternity on campus. He has a reputation to uphold. Backing out of the bet isn't an option. Lose the bet? That'd be even worse for his reputation. Plus, he'd be short two thousand pounds. He doesn't even _have_ two thousand pounds. 

 

He really has no choice but to win the bet, but he tries to tell himself that it doesn't matter. He tries to tell himself that he doesn't care about Zayn, that he doesn't need to feel guilty 'cause Zayn isn't anything to him but doe eyes and an easy ticket to two thousand pounds. 

 

He isn't very convincing, but it's easy enough to forget about feeling guilty with alcohol on tap and Harry's Queen playlist playing so loudly the ground is shaking beneath Liam's feet. 

 

He throws back more shots of Crown Royal, breaks his own record of most Jägerbombs consumed in a single sitting, and spends the majority of Queen's discography grinding against a small girl with full lips and dark eyes.

 

Zayn's still in the back of his mind, because Zayn's always in the back of his mind, but Liam doesn't let it stop him from having fun. 

 

Zayn's nobody to him. Liam doesn't owe him anything. 

 

 

 

When Liam wakes up the next morning, his head aches and he's so dehydrated he's acutely aware of his tongue. 

 

It's taking up too much room in his mouth, and he groans around it as he sits up, swinging himself off the couch where he must have passed out after the party had started to wind down. 

 

He can't remember most of the tail end of the party — he'd sort of blacked out after he'd invented a new version of gin and tonic with Jäger instead of tonic — but he has weirdly specific, vivid memories of knocking over a stool in the kitchen and tearing the curtains down from the front windows. He'd been using them as blankets, and he throws them over the back of the couch as he stands up, stretching slowly. 

 

It's still early, and the sunlight filtering in through the bare windows is pale and weak. The sky is still sort of pink, and most of Liam's fraternity brothers are still scattered across the room, draped over the tops of various surfaces, unconscious. 

 

Normally, he'd wait for them all to wake up, and they'd head down the street to the cafe together for black coffee and much needed fresh air. It's sort of routine, but the frail beginnings of a plan are starting to form in his mind, and to win the bet, he first needs to leave the lot of them sleeping across the floor and front lawn. 

 

He's careful not to wake them as he creeps into the bathroom, checking himself over quickly for mysterious lovebites or cartoonish dicks that had been drawn on him while he was sleeping. Once he's sure he's clear, he douses himself in aftershave, and quickly rinses his mouth out with mouthwash as he pulls his snapback down over the mess of his hair. He quickly looks himself over for dicks again, before creeping out the front door and over to sorority row, where he plucks a tulip from the front law of one of the houses. It's from there that he makes his way towards the cafe, straightening his baggy hoodie out with one hand. 

 

When he finally pushes his way inside, looking, if he does say so himself, kinda presentable, it's almost completely empty; apart from Zayn, who's sitting at the front counter and looking like he hadn't gotten a lot of sleep. 

 

He looks up when the bell chimes over his head, and the way his expression instantly hardens makes Liam's chest constrict in a way that isn't entirely pleasant. He know he deserves it, but he doesn't like it. It almost makes the guilt start to swell up in his stomach again. 

 

"Don't start," Zayn says, before Liam can even open his mouth, and he sounds so genuinely tired that the guilt in Liam's stomach starts to grow tenfold. He ignores it. "I'm really not in the mood." 

 

"What's wrong?" Liam asks gently, and he doesn't have to pretend to sound sincere. He cares about Zayn, no matter how much effort he puts into pretending that he doesn't, and the guilt in his stomach swells again when Zayn sighs. He's tired, obviously drained, and Liam's using him to make some money and keep himself looking good in the eyes of his fraternity brothers. Liam's a bad person. 

 

He ignores the guilt, though, and drops onto the seat next to Zayn, pretending he can't see Zayn visibly tense as he looks away and down the counter. 

 

"Just fuck off," he says rigidly. "I'm really not in the mood." 

 

His jaw is tight, knuckles white where his fists are clenched on the countertop, and Liam places the tulip on the counter before slowly pushing it over to him, into his line of vision. 

 

"This is for you," he says. 

 

Zayn stares down at it for a minute, like he's trying to register what he's seeing, before his head snaps up again so suddenly it makes Liam kinda dizzy. 

 

"What's this?" He asks, sounding accusatory, and Liam has to swallow more guilt as he lifts the tulip from the counter and fits it into Zayn's hand. 

 

"It's called a tulip," Liam tells him, and the angry lines smooth slowly from Zayn's face, leaving him looked stunned and almost confused. "It's a flower," Liam elaborates. 

 

"What?" Zayn asks, sounding dazed, and Liam scratches at the back of his neck, trying for sheepish. 

 

"It's like a plant," he says. "But pretty." 

 

Zayn's lips twitch, and he presses them together tightly as he looks back down at the tulip. 

 

"Thank you," he says finally, and Liam grins widely. 

 

"Do I get a thank you kiss?" He asks, and Zayn narrows his eyes at him over the flower.

 

"You just ruined the moment," he says. 

 

Liam shrugs. "I wouldn't be me if I didn't," he says, and Zayn's lips twitch again. "Now whose ass do I have to eat to get a cup of coffee?" 

 

Zayn's small fist actually kinda hurts when it makes contact with Liam's shoulder, but he laughs, so Liam considers it a win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also dont forget to come find me on [tumblr](http://classiczain.tumblr.com)!! im always taking prompts/requests so dont be afraid to hmu


End file.
